by Robb, J. D.
Miles sighed and went back to watching her breathe. She was more than just a good person to him.
After a short time the Posers returned from the cafeteria with coffee for both Miles and the agent, and once they’d extracted a promise to be notified when Natalie woke up, they left for the night. A little while after that, Palmer got up to stretch his legs and went down the hall to the visitors’ lounge to check in with his office and call his wife.
Miles leaned forward to take up Natalie’s hand. He’d always liked the way she talked with her hands; they were almost as expressive as her face. Gloveless, they’d been nearly purple when he found her—in fact, everyone had marveled at how well she’d pinked up and had sustained no frostbite at all. The words amazing and miraculous and most uncommon were repeated often, in wonder and speculation.
Miles smiled. He’d often used the same words, in the same way, just watching her ladle soup or pester a man to go to the free clinic or slip a burner phone to a kid to call home with when she thought no one else was looking . . . or simply walking down the street, done-in and ready for sleep.
Come to think of it, he was dead on his feet, too. Bouncing high and low like a hard rubber ball for the last few days was taking its toll. After that night at her apartment he soared so far above the ground he could have painted the sky blue by hand, which made his fall into hell when she didn’t arrive at the church all the more violent and chaotic. Elated when he found her, knocked down by her condition, and back to overjoyed when she was out of the woods was a monster roller-coaster ride unlike any he’d taken before—but there was no one in the world he’d rather take it with than her.
“Ruined.” At least that was the word her murmur sounded like.
“What?” He leaned closer, waiting for her to speak again. “Natalie?”
Eyes closed, she drew her chapped lower lip into her mouth to wet it, then tried again. “It’s ruined.”
“What’s ruined?”
“My dress.”
His chuckle was silent. “That’s okay,” he said, sympathetically. “You’re going to need a completely different one for our reception, anyway.”
She frowned, confused enough to blink her eyes open several times before they came to focus on him. Her immediate smile was warm and affectionate—and then it drooped as she took in the space over his shoulder, the strange bed, the TV on the wall, the tray table, the out-of-place hotel picture on the wall . . . Her gaze came back to and clung to the one thing in the room she recognized: Miles.
He smiled, caressed her face without touching it—then realized he could, and did. “I can’t believe you stood me up on our very first date.”
The furrow between her brows deepened. Gradually, as she glanced away and recalled why, her expression relaxed and her gaze met his. “Car trouble.”
His eyes opened wide; he grinned and nodded at the understatement.
They might have been smiling at one another but the current between them was spiked with fear and relief: It conveyed the terror and panic they’d each endured, the hope they had stretched to its limits, and the love that had driven them to this moment.
She turned her hand over so they were palm to palm and she could clasp his tighter. Softly and sincerely, she said, “I’m so sorry.”
He knew it wasn’t for missing their date or for ignoring his repeated advice to be cautious or for being herself and doing what came natural to her: helping those in need. Her only regret was having caused him distress and the pain that accompanied it.
“Well, you’re here and you’re safe,” he said, then attempted a grudge. “I’ll forgive you this time.”
“Even if I can’t promise there won’t be a next time?”
He sobered and answered seriously. “Yes, even if . . . though I hope you won’t test me.” In her expression he saw that she knew she was no longer alone, that her life and his life were one life now, and what one did the other would feel. But he also saw her, and he smiled. “And I can’t promise I’ll be this nice about it next time, so keep that in mind when you do.”
She laughed, then hissed at the stiff pain on the left side of her face and reached for it.
“A couple of minor scratches there . . . and one hell of a shiner,” Miles said, his voice easy and light despite his tense expression. “A few other bruises, too. You got off easy.”
“Better than you, I think.” She reached up to palm his cheek. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you unshaven.” She grinned at him. “You’re a mess.”
There was a noise at the door and they both looked that way.
“Good. You’re back,” Miles said to the dark-haired man in blue jeans and winter jacket standing mostly in the hall. “Come in. She’s awake.”
NATALIE WAS CURIOUS ABOUT THE MAN, OF COURSE, BUT even more intrigued by the sudden rush of excitement rolling off Miles.
“Natalie, this is Special Agent Palmer from the DEA. He has a story to tell you.”
“Please don’t.” Not too curious and not at all apologetic, she said, “I’m sorry, Agent Palmer. No offense. I do sometimes wish I could help you guys out. I do. But I can’t risk getting between you and the dealers and the addicts who might come to me for help. They need to be able to trust me.” She chuckled, hoping to take some of the sting and insult out of her rejection. “Plus, I just promised Miles I’d try to stay out of trouble for a while.”
The agent had a nice smile. “Good. And I’m glad you’re feeling better. You had us worried.” He skipped a beat. “And I’m not here to ask for your help. You’ve already helped us more than you know, without even knowing it.”
“Oh no.”
“Without anyone knowing it,” he said quickly. “Except for those you helped. And they are extremely grateful.” Okay. Now she was curious. “So grateful they’ve asked us to help set up a rather large trust in your name so that you can start up your soup kitchen and . . . well, whatever else you want to do with it to continue to help people, like you helped them.”
“Who?”
Again, he smiled. “Aldene and the children?”
“Aldene? She has money for a trust?”
“A big trust. And her name isn’t Aldene.”
“What is it?”
He shook his head. “For your safety I can’t tell you who she was and I can’t tell you who she is today because she and the rest of the family are in protective custody with the DOJ and I don’t know. But I can tell you that the man that you met, Luis Pena—also not his real name—is her father and his sons are her brothers.”
“Okay.” Still family, though why they’d lie about the order of it was still confusing. “I never asked about a husband. I guess I just assumed he’d passed away or . . . or was off somewhere looking for work or . . . I try not to pry too much.”
He nodded, aware that her friendship and help had been unconditional. “He’s why they fled Mexico.” He sat, took a breath, and began the story. “Wealthy people in Mexico, affluent families that have lived there for generations, are prime targets for kidnapping and ransom by the drug cartels. They pay street taxes to leave their homes and spend fortunes on bribes and protection for their families. And for the most part, if they don’t get in the way or cause any trouble, they manage to keep what is theirs and stay in the country they love.
“I can’t get specific about the Pena family, but Aldene’s husband, her oldest son—”
“Arturo . . . not his real name, right?”
He nodded. “Also one of her brothers . . . they were out together and witnessed a cartel execution. He sent the boys running in one direction and took off the other way. He was captured and killed. The man, Luis, gathered his entire family and smuggled them over the border that night and didn’t stop running until he got here and could safely contact the authorities. We were called in first and they were given temporary S-5 permits—for witnesses and informants in criminal or terrorists cases. We, and certain people in the Mexican government, have been after these guys for years.
“Turns out the kid, Arturo, didn’t see the actual murder but his young uncle did and he was willing to testify in exchange for witness protection for himself and his family.” He looked away briefly. “But sometimes risking your life isn’t enough, and somewhere between the DEA, the DOJ, and Homeland Security, it was decided that a legal and permanent residence—and then witness protection—was going to require an EB-5 visa.” There was an angry tick in his cheek when he paused to gather an explanation. “EB-5s are what you might call a rich man’s visa that gets their wheels greased to the front of the line by investing five hundred thousand dollars or more in American business projects—what they call economic growth projects for rural and high unemployment areas. Or a million for projects outside those areas.” He hesitated, rethinking what he was about to say, and then tipped his head regrettably to say, “Money.”
She could see he didn’t approve of the deal Aldene and her family had to make to stay safe for doing the right thing . . . to stay alive. She liked him for it.
“Anyway, Luis apparently didn’t feel secure without a solid deal in place so he used some connections he had to slip away and drop out of sight until the financial arrangements could be made. Way out of sight, because by the time we found his connection he’d stashed the kids and he was the only one making periodic contact with them.” He shook his head. “Considering the long fingers of the cartels in this country, it’s hard to believe he felt safer on the streets than in a temporary safe house . . . but he said that was exactly why he thought it was best to be able to separate and move around than to sit all together in one place.” He shrugged. “Who knows? Scared is scared and you do what you do to keep your family safe. And with the money thing . . . ? Hard to tell who you can trust when money’s involved.”
“I like money . . . and I never have any. How’d they know I wouldn’t sell them out? I mean, if I somehow found them out.”
Agent Palmer’s gaze shifted to Miles, who then grinned at her. “You’re as well known for being a soft touch as you are for your soup, sweetheart. And, apparently, you can do discreet better than I gave you credit for, because the father was keeping his ear to the ground. He knew his daughter and grandchildren were safe with you as long as he didn’t hear anything about them, or get wind of anyone staying with you.”
“See?” She played proud, but only to cover the deep gratification she felt in having been a part—albeit unknowingly—of the family’s escape from danger.
“Don’t get cocky,” he said with a loving frown. “It was still risky and dangerous.”
“It was,” the agent agreed, and shifted his weight in the chair he was sitting in. “Which is why, when we finally connected with the family again, we thought it would be safer if you never knew who they were and they simply disappeared. Aldene told her father you were trying to get them into a shelter so we accelerated that process a little . . . and it would have worked out perfectly except she knew you were behind in your rent and working extra jobs to make ends meet. She and her father, as I said, are extremely grateful to you for helping them—and with no ulterior motive.” Yet another disparaging reference to the special visa—she really liked him for it.
“Long story a little shorter, they insisted that they wanted to give you money . . . outside of that entailed by their EB-5. For your dreams, they said. They planned to send you a fortune anonymously through the mail.” He chuckled. “We explained how conspicuous and possibly hazardous that might be for you, and a little about taxes and all that, and they finally agreed to let us arrange for a trust to be set up in your name. It has its own background and cover story and can’t be traced to them.”
He stood and pulled a long white envelope from a pocket inside his jacket. Stepping around to the side of the bed opposite Miles, he handed it to her. His expression was serious but his eyes were twinkling with goodwill.
He cleared his throat and began to recite: “On behalf of the Pena family—not their real names—please accept this token of their gratitude and friendship. They will never forget you or your kindness to them.” He smiled and reached back into his jacket. “And neither will I. Please, take my card. If you ever need me for anything, I want you to call. I get the position you’re in but you never know—having a friend in the DEA might come in handy someday.”
She took his card; they all shook hands and then he was gone.
For one entire minute, Miles and Natalie stared at the white envelope on her lap.
“Aren’t you going to open it?” he asked finally. She turned her head and scrutinized him until he became a little uncomfortable. “What?”
“What sort of reception?”
He was surprised into laughter, but didn’t hesitate to answer. “Our wedding reception.”
Her brows rose over sparkling eyes. “Aren’t you getting a little ahead of yourself?”
“No. I’m way behind where I should be with you. I should have asked you to marry me three years ago, about a week after I met you, when I first realized I was hopelessly in love with you.”
“It took you a whole week?” For her it was that first night when he’d helped her, all battered and bruised, out of the back of his police car and then, needlessly, he’d picked her up in his arms and carried her into the ER. Literally, he’d swept her off her feet.
“Only to realize it . . . and then that night, the night I finally asked you out . . . that’s when I realized you felt the same. That look on your face? I’d seen it so often, waited for it, worked for it, hoped it would be there every time I saw you. It just didn’t occur to me, until then, what it meant.” Suddenly, he was so overcome with emotion she thought he might cry. She reached to smooth her hand over the side of his face, through his hair, and to rest on the back of his neck. He smiled and leaned into it. “The other night, shortly before I found you . . . I was a little bit out of my mind, but life was never so clear to me. It’s short. Way too short. I vowed then and there that if I found you alive I wouldn’t live another second without you. I’d marry you and we’d live happily ever after.” He leaned in, mere inches from her face. “Please marry me.”
“Tonight?” she asked, being facetious.
“Yes. Tomorrow at the latest.”
“Okay.”
The kiss they shared was everything she knew it would be—soft and demanding; conquering and offering; rousing and freeing—it fused her soul to his.
At last, Miles smiled between sweet, sipping kisses and pulled away to say, “I can’t wait to start bragging about my wife’s survival skills.”
She nodded, dubious. “My luck is fantastic, but I don’t think luck is a skill.”
“Trust me, building a fire like that in the middle of a snowstorm isn’t just luck.”
“Fire?”
“I couldn’t have built it on my best day in the army. It had clearly been burning for a while. I couldn’t believe it—the broken branches and twigs still burning in the pit, the embers red hot. I was amazed by the heat it was putting off.”
“What fire?”
“The one you built to stay warm . . . also a good signal fire, by the way. It was so bright I couldn’t believe I missed—”
“I used up all my matches . . .”
“I’m not surprised. It couldn’t have been easy.”
“No. I mean, I didn’t . . . It didn’t . . . I . . .”
She saw it again. That staggering light in a moonless night sky with a gloriously long, luminous tail crossed her mind in all its true magnificence. So unique, so powerful and moving. So unearthly and magical.
“What is it?” Miles asked, watching as clarity lit her expression.
Accepting the fire as real, she looked down at the unopened envelope on the bed and back at Miles.
Life, purpose, and love—all she’d ever wished for.
“The Christmas Comet.”
AUTHOR’S NOTE
Originally I chose Hans Christian Andersen’s The Little Match Girl as my fairy tale for this novella.
However, while most fairy tales are not exactly funny and upbeat, most, in their most common versions, don’t end quite so grimly or without a happy ending. I soon discovered that the Brothers Grimm had also been inspired to write a story about an impoverished little girl in The Star Money that ends on a much lighter note. Inspired by both, my story is a mix of the two.
P.S. Comet ISON is real and should be visible from Earth from approximately November 2013 through about February 2014. Watch for it. And if it passes through your part of the sky, make a wish.
STROKE OF MIDNIGHT
R. C. RYAN
To my daughter-in-law Maureen,
whose generous heart makes all who meet her fall in love.
And in memory of my Tom,
who forever owns my heart.
PROLOGUE
TEN YEARS PREVIOUS
“Sydney.” Margot stared in surprise at her sixteen-year-old stepdaughter, dressed in her school uniform, carrying an armload of textbooks. “What are you doing home from school so early?”
“I told you we were having a half-day for teacher conferences.” Sydney watched, wide-eyed, as workers swarmed over the barn her father had converted into his artist studio, efficiently wrapping dozens of his paintings. “What are they doing?”
“Preparing them for shipment.”
“Shipment? Where? Why?”
“We’ve been over this, Sydney. With your father dead, we have no use for this big farmhouse and this barn”—Margot waved her hands to indicate the cavernous surroundings—“where your father used to hide away for hours on end. Not only was I fortunate to find a buyer for this place, but someone who obviously has more money than brains offered a fabulous sum for the entire collection of your father’s art. I was hoping to have it out of here before you got home.”
